Paris Premier

Rodarte’s Kate and Laura Mulleavey take a tour of the French capital with Lynn Yaeger. Don’t be surprised if the models at the next Rodarte show are six inches tall, wear tiny bustles, carry Lilliputian parasols, and emerge from a miniature antique armoire. Such is the reaction to the dolls at the Musée de la Poupée in Paris—Kate and Laura Mulleavy are shouting “Oh, my God,” so loudly they drown out the squeals of the other patrons (average age, seven)—that it’s easy to believe these toys might find a second life on the runway. The sisters are in town for Fashion Week appointments, but it doesn’t take much to persuade them to goof off for a few hours and play with dolls. Like all artists, they don’t see things quite how the rest of the world sees them— “I like the way the eyebrows change from thin to bushy,” Laura says, examining a case of Victorian porcelain ladies; the snowflake pattern of a paper doll’s dress looks to Kate like Gaultier couture. “These are like maybe the coolest things I’ve ever seen,” she says, gazing with wonder at the 1930s French Snow White avec dwarfs and the felt flapper couple that is the spitting image of the Fitzgeralds (a smiling Scott; a sulky Zelda.) This is the sisters’ first visit to the doll museum, in a day that will encompass a roster of other firsts—their first ride on the métro (not nearly as intimidating as they anticipated), along with their first truly exhaustive Parisian shopping excursion. Though our original agenda included everything from Napoleon’s tomb—the Mulleavys love marble—to a visit to the legendary taxidermy emporium Deyrolle, we instead end up repairing to the Belle Époque interior of Angelina’s tea room, where the Mulleavys savor their croque-monsieurs, and the conversation turns to all the other things besides Paris the sisters love, including Irma, the ghost piano in residence at L.A.’s Magic Castle. We polish off our plate of macaroons and decide to look at the vintage militaria for sale in the Palais Royale (Laura will grow weak-kneed over the faded orange ribbon holding the medals), but on the way over we are waylaid by the souvenir shops (who would dare call them tourist traps!) that crowd the Rue de Rivoli. Guess who wants Tour Eiffel stud earrings? Both sisters. Also a miniature painter with easel (reminiscent of those tiny darlings at the museum); a funny apron for their mom; little tins filled with violet pastilles; a tiny Tour Eiffel glass full of vodka for a friend who likes the occasional nip; a stack of embroidered gold place mats with a vaguely ecclesiastical air. Just when it seems that they can’t carry one more item, Kate spies a display of Tour Eiffel lollipops made, it appears, of spun sugar. Far too laden with treasures to try out their newfound métro skills, they hop into a taxi, lollipops bobbing under the Parisian sun.